


I'm Losing You

by mandysimo13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death, Im not crying you're crying, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Lestrade, Regret, Tears, cofessions of love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 22:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2557439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandysimo13/pseuds/mandysimo13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade gets news of the death of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and flies to the scene to determine what happens. In doing so we learn what happens in the final moments of life between two men who never thought their lives would end in such a manner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Losing You

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was inspired by a post on tumblr. I'll post the link below and it includes the link of the story written by SeenaC for the fic which this is inspired from. I highly recommend reading it as it is also a tear-jerker. 
> 
> http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/101609577223/khorazir-inspired-by-seenacs-moving-fanfic

Lestrade broke through the crowd of people, stumbling over his own feet, brain not quite catching up with the information he had just received. _Can’t be dead, can’t be dead, can’t be dead…_

His heart hammered in his chest, his palms sweating and tears collecting in the corner of his eyes until finally he reached the corner where Donovan and Anderson were waiting for him. If he kept walking it would become true. If he rounded the corner everything would be confirmed and it would be true. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson would, really and truly, be dead. But it would be true no matter if he turned the corner or not, there would be no mistaking Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. There would be no miracle like the last time, no miraculous return on either of their parts.

“Inspector Lestrade,” Sally said as he paused at the police line crossing the dead end of the alley from the prying eyes of the public; a public that had gotten word of the greatest detective’s rumored demise all too quickly for his liking. Her words passed through his unhearing ears until Sally reached out and snapped her fingers in front of his eyes to demand his attention, her sharp voice accompanying her fingers, “Greg, focus.” She added softly, “You know he, they, would want you to focus right now.”

Lestrade took a deep breath and wiped his damp palms on his pants, trying to calm the drumbeat in his chest, and bent under the police tape to investigate the scene. He ignored the other two bodies in the alley, just focusing on the two that demanded his attention. Seeing his friends - _no, not your friends, the victims,_ he professionally reminded himself - sucked the air from his lungs, punched him in the gut; A very real pain that dropped him to his knees in front of them.

They were curled against the back wall against each other, Sherlock draped across John’s torso with John’s head buried in Sherlock’s hair. Across Sherlock’s chest there was a large bloom of red that signaled his obvious cause of death, a gunshot wound that had pierced his heart. _Take that Sally Donovan,_ he thought morbidly, _he always did have a heart._ John’s cause of death seemed to have been a gunshot as well, but lower on his stomach. His autopsy would reveal more.

Autopsy. John Watson’s autopsy.

Suddenly Lestrade couldn’t see it anymore. He couldn’t unsee what he had just seen. Or, to use a very Sherlockian phrase, ‘Could not unobserve’. He should never have come here, never should have insisted he be involved. He should have learned his lesson of getting involved with cases too close to his heart after Sherlock’s fall and the chaos surrounding it. He had to leave.

Lestrade forced himself to close his eyes to the scene, forced himself to get up and somehow will the tears that were threatening to fall to crawl back up into his eyes and turn to face the team assembled to investigate. Taking slow, quiet steps he walked to the police line but didn’t crawl under again. Instead he reached out to grip Sally’s arm and in a broken voice ask, “What the hell happened?”

~*~

“Sherlock!”

John was caught between a rock and a hard place. And so was Sherlock.

The flatmates had chased the two men responsible for a string of murders for over an hour through the streets of London. Down alleys, through restaurant kitchens, darting through yards, finally ending in a corner where there was no escape. Not for the murderers and not for the flatmates. Sherlock was pressed against the chest of a man who held a gun to his head. Sherlock’s face was impassive, betraying no sign of discomfort. Of course this wasn’t the first time he had been held at gunpoint and he certainly did not intend to die today. He would use the brain currently being threatened to help them get out relatively unscathed. _Just like always,_ John thought.

John on the other hand was being held against the other man’s chest at the mouth of the alley, gun pressed to his stomach and a hand wrapped around his neck, slightly choking and holding it at an angle so he couldn’t safely gain any leverage. The two men were shouting at each other in dispute as to what to do now.

John’s baddie believed the best option would be to use the two of them as their shields when the police finally arrived in the hopes of negotiating a deal before being arrested. He knew that the two of them were utterly fucked and that the only way to proceed now would be to give up and play ball. Sherlock’s baddie thought they would still have a chance if they killed their hostages and booked it as far and as fast as they could. Neither baddie refused to leave without each other and neither backed down. It was looking like they would lose track of time and continue arguing until London’s finest caught up with the four men and then they would be in the clear. Sherlock and John would be safe. And then Sherlock opened his mouth.

“You know that you both are complete idiots.”

John’s baddie stopped mid-sentence and addressed the detective. “Excuse me?”

Sherlock spoke again, clearly and slowly, as if speaking to a non-native speaker. “You. Are Both. Idiots.”

Sherlock’s baddie tapped his gun against Sherlock’s forehead, presumably to draw his attention to the man behind him, “And why would that be?”

“Well for starters,” Sherlock began, “You ran straight into a dead end. No matter what happens today, that choice would be your downfall. Secondly, both your plans are flawed.” He looked directly at the man holding John. “You are under the impression that you will be bargained with,” then he tilted his head ever so slightly to speak the the man behind him, “And you think you can get away with murder, kidnapping, more murder and escape all before the police get here. You’ve highly underestimated London’s finest. Granted they’re inept as all hell but-”

Sherlock’s baddie cracked him in the head with the pistol cutting his train of thought.

“Sherlock,” John cried from his cage of arms, helpless to do anything other than watch the trickle of blood from the corner of Sherlock’s head slide down to the corner of his mouth.

“And now you’ve added assault to your laundry list of crimes, bravo.”

“Shut up!”

“Come on man,” John’s baddie yelled, trying to regain some control of the situation. They were all losing time and they all knew it. One way or another this would end badly.

John suddenly had an idea. It was rash and dangerous and bloody stupid but it was a plan. He could get them out of here and then have a very long conversation with Sherlock about reigning in his insensible mouth because it was going to get them killed one of these days. If he were lucky he wouldn’t even lose that much blood in the process.

He gripped the hand holding the gun to his chest and squeezed the finger he knew to be holding the trigger - which was horrible gun handling, if you ask him, to have your finger ever ready on the trigger because that’s when accidents happen - and felt the bolt of pain rip through him. In and out and then there were the shouts. John heard his own followed a split second later by the man’s behind him, and then Sherlock’s cry of his name.

Part two of the plan, even though he couldn’t see well due to the pain, was to shoot the man holding Sherlock and the weight of a gun was not unfamiliar in his hand. He just had to hold on and hope the man holding Sherlock would drop the detective after seeing his friend go down.

John pointed in the direction of the man and fired.

A second later two forms dropped and John forced his eyes to focus. _Oh god, no,_ he screamed internally.

Sherlock was down. Sherlock was down and bleeding and John limped his way to him, hoping to any and all gods listening that he hadn’t hit anything major. That the bullet that ripped through him and into the assailant behind the detective hadn’t done any lasting damage. Too much to hope for.

“No, no, no, no no,” John collapsed on the ground in front of Sherlock and tore open the shirt already soaked through with blood, ignoring the pain in his stomach, ignoring the ache in his leg from the impact. They didn’t matter now. Sherlock mattered. Would always matter first.

“Shit, shit, bloody, buggering shit,” John whispered as he reached for a sheet dangling from the dumpster to their right. It might cause an infection but that’s what antibiotics were for. He needed to stop the bleeding. As he tore into the sheet he felt his own core begin to drop in temperature, the tremor in his hand getting worse. He had to work fast if they were both going to get out of here.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, stay with me.” He balled up half the torn sheet and pressed it to the wound. He saw that he had hit him right where his heart would be and saw Sherlock beginning to fade. “Christ, I’m so fucking sorry. Don’t you fucking die on me you bastard! I want you to kick my arse for shooting you, I want you to yell and curse and threaten never to see me again! Just as long as you live! Come on, Mycroft will never forgive me if you go!”

“John,” Sherlock’s strained whisper fell from his mouth, momentarily stopping the doctor.

John shook his head and leaned forward, a gasp of pain and groan accompanying the movement, to wrap the rest of the torn sheet around Sherlock’s body to hold his makeshift pad to the detective’s chest. Sherlock cried out in pain at the movement, his breath coming faster. John was losing him.

His own vision was going foggy and he checked his own wound. He was also losing too much blood but there was nothing he could do, he realized. For either of them.

The realization almost collapsed him. Tears welled up and fell, running down his cheeks in fat rivers, sobs choking any other words.

“John, don’t,” Sherlock gasped.

“We’re done aren’t we,” John asked, already knowing the answer.

“I think we are, John.”

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock. Could you ever forgive me?”

“I seem to remember,” Sherlock said, panting between words, “That we would always forgive each other.”

John shook his head, tears stinging his eyes, vision swimming from both the tears and his blood loss. He was so cold. Lips and toes numb. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.”

“Don’t think of that now. Just,” Sherlock paused unsure of what to say to the man who had shared his life. “I need…”

John could do this. He could do one last thing to make amends.

He crawled to sit beside Sherlock. He nudged the man forward, gaining another growl of pain and hasty, panty breaths as he pulled the man to him, placing his head against his chest. “God, I’m losing you, I’m so sorry-”

“No more apologies, John.” Sherlock’s color was the palest John had ever seen it. “John.”

“Yes?”

“I-I, love you. Never thought to say it before but under the circumsta-”

“I love you too.” John’s voice cracked at the end, the tears refused to stop and his throat was tight, making it hard to breathe.

“John.” The word was said with the exhale of shaky breath. So soft John’s cotton filled, dizzy ears almost missed it.

“Sherlock?”

The detective didn’t answer and he felt his body go limp. He gently shook the man in his arms and there was no further response, no more breathing. No more Sherlock.

“No, no, Sherlock, Christ, I’m sorry.” John buried his head into Sherlock’s hair and kissed the nape of the man’s neck. Inhaling the scent that he associate with his flatmate, his partner and his very recent lover. They hadn’t had enough time. Had never had enough time. Sherlock had only just come back and now he was gone for good.

John felt himself slipping and he wanted to go. Wanted to slide. There was nothing left if Sherlock was well and truly gone too. He couldn’t take his loss again.

And so, with a heart full of regret, John closed his eyes and let the tears fall and dampen Sherlock’s hair and soon the world slipped away.

~*~

“What the hell happened,” Lestrade demanded, shouting his rage and sorrow at the woman who he felt had never given the two dead men their due.

Sally took his abuse with eyes that were shiny, a lip that was quivering. “We, we don’t know,” Sally responded. She bit her lip to stop it’s trembling and turned her face away to Anderson who, for once, had nothing to say. Neither of them had anything to say. Sally cleared her throat to softly say, “We’ll have to run a full investigation. It will take some time.”

“How long have they been dead?”

Sally tried her best to get him to calm down and come back under the tape. “Greg-”

“How Long?” He was shouting. He wanted to know, needed to know, how long. He needed to know that it wasn’t because his team was at fault.

“Less than an hour.”

“How long has the team been here?”

“Just past half an hour. They were already dead. There was nothing anyone could do.”

Greg just shook his head, knowing she was right. There was nothing they could do. He could do no more. This job had taken so much from him and right now it threatened to take the last of his barely held onto sanity. He looked Sally straight in the eye, his mind made up. “I am resigning.”

~*~

A week and a half went by and Lestrade had in that time rendered his full resignation and attended the joint funeral of two of the bravest and best men he knew in his life. When he returned from the Holmes/Watson funeral all he had the energy for was pouring himself a very tall glass of scotch and collapse into his chair. His brain was still swirling with the information that he had pried from an unwilling Molly Hooper. She was in tears and couldn’t stop babbling something about how it didn’t have to be this way until Lestrade finally cornered her in the coat room of the funeral home. When he finally dragged out of her the reason for her babbling he almost sank to his knees.

He could still hear their conversation ringing in his ears.

“What do you mean, Molly?”

“John didn’t have to die. He could have lived.”

“What are you talking about?”

Molly explained that John’s cause of death was his kidney had been ruptured and he had bled out. If he had had the will to hang on or had staunched the flow with the sheet he had used on Sherlock that he would still be here. He would be short a kidney and would have had needed extensive therapy but he would be here.

He had been angry at first. But now that his mind had had a few hours to mull over the knowledge he had come to a conclusion about John Watson. The conclusion was that he really couldn’t blame him. Sherlock dying the first time, falling from that building, had nearly killed him. Mary’s intervention had saved him. In the two years that Sherlock had been gone John had almost lost his vitality for good. Then when Mary left after seeing that she would never replace Sherlock, especially after his miraculous return, Sherlock was there to help John with his guilt and move on with life.

This time with Sherlock gone John wouldn't have stood a chance of recovery. How many times could you see the person you love most in the world die?

No. Lestrade didn’t blame John. He just wished he had had a chance to say goodbye to them.

The light from his answering machine plucked his attention from his now near empty glass and Lestrade needed the distraction of sound, any sound, to escape the morbid and depressing thoughts from drowning him.

_Beep - Hello, Former Inspector Greg Lestrade. This is a representative from The Times newspaper. We’re deeply sorry for your loss but we would like to run a memoir on Sherlock Holmes, and John Watson of course, and would really love for you to make a statement about their relationship and some personal stories. We understand that the timing is probably inconvenient and you’re still grieving but we here at The Times had heard that you had special insight and we would love your input. If you would like to say your piece please call us back at -_

Lestrade hit the save button on the machine. He would have a chance to set the record straight about the two men who he admired most. A chance to have the world know a piece of the truth of them. Lestrade drained his glass and grabbed a piece of paper and pen from the table next to him. He hit the replay button again to collect the number for the Times’ representative and then he would call Dimmock for help getting specifics on their case. Dimmock would know the reason, know the importance.

With the phone number for the Times written down and his words already forming in his head, he dialed Dimmock.

One the first ring a familiar voice answered, “Greg.”

“Hey. Do you think you could do me a favor?"

“Anything for you mate, what do you need?”

Lestrade told him what he needed and Dimmock didn't hesitate for a moment. All he heard was a ‘yes of course’ and ‘have it to you by morning’ and they said their goodbyes and that was it.

He could do this at least for them. Give them a final word. They deserved that and more. He knew life would be empty without them. Their loss would eat into his life and tear a hole that couldn’t be filled but he comforted himself with the knowledge that at least they had had each other. They died as they had lived. Together.


End file.
